


Forward

by johnwatso, Salambo06



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 23:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15035978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/pseuds/johnwatso, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: A minute passes without either of them moving, Sherlock barely even breathing for fear of ruining the spell that seems to have come over them."Like what?" he finally asks, emboldened by the whiskey and the adrenaline coursing through his veins."I would have kissed you," John says, so simply, so plainly, that Sherlock wants to cry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We only have one goal with this fic: have fun writing it. 
> 
> We hope you will too, reading our story.

The white-hot adrenaline is chased with a celebratory glass of whiskey next to the fire. Uppers, downers, Sherlock is used to the careful balance a chemist must always maintain, especially in oneself. The excitement and the little victories never cease to be his most trusted source of stimulation - one deduction after another, his mind finally allowed free reign to spin itself into something that is useful for once. After this, however, comes the inevitable crash, but not before he allows himself this little moment to acknowledge the win - something John often used to encourage him to do.

They're sat in their old chairs opposite each other, each with a glass in hand. It’s nearing one in the morning, the air taking on that cool, misty quality that somehow makes itself known in the hours between midnight and dawn. The street below is still, enshrining their little moment together. 

The case took absolute ages, days and days of leg- and brain-work, the conclusion seeming to never present itself but, in the end, it was worth it. Mostly because he got to spend all that time with John, who he barely sees anymore. Ever since...    
  
"Tough case," John says conversationally.   
  
"Tough case," Sherlock agrees, holding his glass up in a salute, which John mirrors. Their glasses meet in the middle of their chairs, a hollow  _ clink  _ reverberating around the otherwise silent room.   
  
"Still. I'm glad we did it. This. I do miss it,” John says, too casually, bringing his glass up to the light as if to inspect the crystal. What he sees must be satisfying because he nods to himself, just once, and lowers it again.   
  
"As do I." Sherlock is starting to feel warm and bright inside, like the hot thing he tries, often, to contain is exploding.   
  
And then, softly, as if as an afterthought: "I didn't imagine I would. I thought I would grow weary of the chase after all this time, especially after settling down."   
  
"Haven’t you?" Sherlock asks, his heart skipping a beat in anticipation for the answer, whichever he receives.   
  
"No," John replies, and it's fond. Beyond fond. Sherlock is elated. A light smile dances at the corners of his John's mouth, which, in turn, leads to the same in Sherlock.    
  
"Is there anything I - we should have done differently?" Sherlock asks, always keen to improve upon his methods. A scientist never stops learning, never stops moving forward.   
  
"No," John says, and suddenly he becomes serious, maintaining eye contact.   
  
Sherlock knows they're not talking about the case anymore. Perhaps they never were. "Nothing?" he asks in return. Heat pools in his abdomen, concentrating into a little knot. There’s a static in the atmosphere between them, something suddenly sizzling and very much alive.   
  
"Well. If I could do it all again..."   
  
"Yes?" Sherlock whispers, barely a puff of air in the stillness of the sitting room.   
  
"If I could do it all again, I'd make sure it was what it could have been. Sooner, that is."   
  
Sherlock is stunned into silence, something that happens rarely. All he can do is blink out his lack of response.   
  
John takes the opportunity to apparently soldier on. "I'd make sure that every time... that every time I was lying next to somebody else, I wasn’t thinking about..."   
  
"Every time?" Sherlock asks in a muted tone.   
  
"Every time," John states, a soft, small smile lighting a sorrowful expression onto his face.   
  
"Even-"   
  
"Even with her, yes."   


Sherlock doesn't know what to do with this information.    
  
"I know it's forward, but it's true," John says after some time has passed. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but I could never forgive myself if I missed this opportunity to tell you… If I kept hiding…”   
  
"It's... fine. It's all fine."   
  
John huffs out a small laugh at that. "Speaking of. Another thing I’d have done differently: that night. The night of-"   
  
"The night of the stakeout at Angelo's," Sherlock interrupts, one part awe-filled, the other voicing his vehement agreement. He thinks that there’s nothing that John could say about that night that he hasn’t already thought about - ad nauseum - himself.   
  
"I'm sorry for that night."   
  
"Sorry?"   
  
"Not about anything that happened. Just about what didn't. One would imagine that the years that have passed between then and now would have watered down all these feelings, but it just never seemed to happen. I spent so much time convincing myself that I never needed to say anything. Up until now, I probably never would have, but I’d spend the rest of my life being sorry if I didn’t say that this isn’t what it should be. If I didn’t tell you about the things that should have happened that night; the things I’ve spent the past seven years playing over and over in my mind with absolute regret."   
  
"Ah."   
  
A minute passes without either of them moving, Sherlock barely even breathing for fear of ruining the spell that seems to have come over them.   
  
"Like what?" he finally asks, emboldened by the whiskey and the adrenaline coursing through his veins.    
  
"I would have kissed you," John says, so simply, so plainly, that Sherlock wants to cry. That such a momentous statement could be packed into something so small is a wonder, not unlike the compact, muscular, miraculous man himself. "I would have kissed you right..." he leans forward, pressing a finger to Sherlock's lips, "here."   
  
"Right here?" Sherlock asks, bringing his index finger to his mouth to meet John's, his caressing John’s from the tip to the knuckle.   
  
"Right there."

“It’s not…” Sherlock lowers his voice, heart in his throat. “It’s not too late, you know.”   
  
“I know,” John whispers back, the air thickening around them and the noises coming from outside seeming to fade into oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

Of all the places John had believed never to belong again, the quiet, ever so familiar sitting room of Baker Street had been first on the list. Too much had happened between those four walls, too much had failed to happen, too. This is the place where he had once thought he’d watched the years go by, listening to a piece on a too-quiet violin, his eyes closed and heart beating with each note filling the air. It sometimes amazes him to think back on that time, how easy it could have been to simply ask if they could have this forever. He wonders what Sherlock would have said, maybe just nodding or shrugging his agreement, the two of them never breaking this unspoken arrangement never to use words when it comes to such sentiments.

And yet. The weight of his body perfectly settles back into his old chair, one arm draped over the armrest, a glass of whiskey he barely touched hanging loosely from his fingers. He doesn’t care, not about the drink nor about the heat emanating from the fireplace or even the laughter making its way up to them from the street. John does not have eyes or ears for any of them. 

There’s only Sherlock.

“I know,” he breathes once more, the softness of Sherlock’s lower lips against his finger his only focus. Has it always been this soft? If he had kissed him that very first night, would it have felt exactly like this, so uncertain, so fragile, so natural?

Sherlock’s eyes flutter close, his hand now wrapped around John’s wrist as if to prevent him from moving away. 

“Would you have really?” There is now a deep frown around his eyes, painful, and John wonders if a touch of lips could make it go away. “Even after all I said or did that night, after all the things people warned you about?”

“Yes,” John smiles, his finger tracing Sherlock’s lower lips. “You were all I could focus on. I didn’t listen to a single word people said, I was too busy listening to you. Sherlock, you had me from the very moment you took my phone and read my whole life story from it.”

Their eyes meet again, searching in the dim light. Sherlock’s hand is shaking as he slowly moves to slide John’s hand up his cheek and into his hair, now cupping his face. John breathes out as quietly as he can, afraid Sherlock might let go. The first caress of Sherlock’s lips against his palm makes his whole body shudder. He feels more than he hears Sherlock’s own sharp exhale, so very warm on his bare skin. 

“You frightened me.”

The confession is barely a whisper in the already quiet room, lingering between them as if to stay there indefinitely. 

“How s-”

“I didn’t know what was happening.” Still holding his gaze, lips moving against his skin, Sherlock hasn’t stopped shaking yet. “I had deduced countless strangers, read their stories and forgot it all immediately, but you... I wanted to impress you, hoped to somehow make sure you wouldn’t be able to forget me. And it wasn’t logical. I shouldn’t have cared, shouldn’t have bothered to estimate the exact distance to put between us, standing in that lab, so that I would be the only person you could look at. So that all the rest would fade from your attention.”

“It did,” John murmurs, the tips of his fingers playing with Sherlock’s hair. 

“But I shouldn’t have acted like that.” Sherlock sounds almost angry now, breaking eye contact to hide against John’s hand. “I was beyond all that, beyond feeling and caring about another person. I had taught myself not to care. But you were standing in front of me and I-”

“Sherlock.” John puts his glass down, sliding forward on his chair and letting his free hand cup Sherlock’s face, too. They’re close. Suddenly John is brought back, a lifetime ago, to a fence separating them and metal hurting their flesh. “Look at me.” Shades of bright warmth lights their faces. “I understand. I do.”

“You thought about kissing me,” Sherlock whispers, shameful. “I thought about ways to ensure you won’t ever need nor want anybody else but me. Who does that?”

John’s thumbs stroke his cheekbones slowly, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I thought about it, too. I lay in bed, wondering how such a boring man as me could ever be worthy of your unlimited attention. I thought about ways to become more interesting, ways to remain mysterious enough to keep you invested. I fell asleep certain you’d asked me to move out the next day.”

“I would have neve-”

“You frightened me.”

Sherlock’s voice is ever so quiet as he says, “I imagined kissing you, too. After I managed to figure out why and how you upset me.”

John’s voice is reduced to a murmur as he asks, “You did?”

“At various times and many situations, yes.”

Sherlock’s second hand comes to rest over his own, the glass of whiskey forgotten on the floor. Silence settles back between them, just a little lighter than before. John wonders if one day it will stop feeling so thick, if they’ll find ways to share all there is left to say. 

“Is it also not too late for everything else?”

Sherlock smiles, lips curving upward to meet John’s palms. “It isn’t.”

“Do you want everything else?”

“Yes, yes. I do.”

The last push forward could have come from either of them. Sherlock’s hand settles on his nape at the first brush of their lips, hesitant and yet so present. John’s eyes fall shut as he seeks more, learning the shape of Sherlock’s lips with his own. Hot breath meeting in the middle, John finds that he doesn't care whether Sherlock would have tasted the same seven years ago. This right here is exactly what he always craved. In the quietness of a room he made his home, kissing the man he has been desperately in love with for much too long, John learns what it is to belong. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock doesn’t understand why people don’t make a bigger deal about kissing. It’s all about sex all the time. Nobody ever told him that kissing the right person could feel this  _ good.  _ He can’t believe he would have gone his entire life never having kissed John Watson and missed out on this. The fact that that path was what, half an hour ago, lay before him makes him feel physically pained. 

He wishes he could somehow package up this moment and tie it with a ribbon and keep it always. 

When they’ve had their fill, the kisses turn lazier. Somehow, in the time between then and now, the boundary between what they were and what they are a little blurred, Sherlock has ended up more on John’s lap than on his own chair. He would be horrified if not for the fact that John is currently pulling him closer, encouraging him to straddle his lap. 

He’s glad he now has a better vantage point, and holds John’s head still while he deepens the kisses, grinding down with his pelvis simultaneously to elicit a less-than-savoury moan from John’s mouth to his, back to John’s again. 

It’s love, it’s lust, it’s everything he’s ever wanted and more. 

John’s hands come to cup his arse, kneading the fleshy skin there, causing more friction between their bodies. The heat rising in Sherlock’s abdomen is unbearable. He wants more, more, more. 

“Mmm, mmm, stop, stop, stop,” John whispers, bringing his index and middle fingers up to separate their mouths. He closes his eyes and exhales deeply. 

“Wha- Why?” Sherlock asks, affronted. 

“Let’s take it slow. I want. I want to savour this,” John says, opening his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. 

The answering heat there assures Sherlock that John wants this as much as he does. 

“Remind me why on earth we would do that,” Sherlock says, grinding down into John’s lap again.

John groans in response, his eyes falling closed and his head tilting backwards. 

Sherlock takes the opportunity to go in for the kill again, kissing his way up John’s neck and finding his mouth once more, their tongues meeting in a way that feels like coming home. 

John seems to come to himself and pulls away again. “Slow,” he murmurs, running his hands up and down Sherlock’s chest, willing him to be still. 

Sherlock sighs. “Alright.”

“Don’t sulk, love,” John smiles, his fingers under Sherlock’s chin encouraging him to look at him again. 

“M’not,” Sherlock huffs. 

John laughs, gives Sherlock a chaste, sweet kiss on the mouth. He runs his hands up and down the sides of Sherlock’s thighs and leans his forehead against Sherlock’s chest. 

It’s quiet for a long while. 

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks softly, his nerves suddenly suffocating him. 

“Nothing. Everything is just right for once and I… I need a minute.”

“Hey,” Sherlock whispers, lifting John’s head up and kissing his forehead, wiping the held-back tears from the corners of his eyes. “Take all the time you need.”

John sighs, looks at Sherlock as though he’s the light itself. “I. I love you. You have to know that.”

Sherlock’s breath is caught in his throat, which is seizing up. He wished he could say something, but his heart is at war with his nervous system and John simply  _ has  _ to,  _ must  _ know that he loves him very dearly. 

“It’s okay,” John smiles, seeming to understand. “I love you,” he says again, pleased with it. 

All Sherlock can do is stare at him like a gaping idiot and, really, he wishes somebody would slap him. 

“Come here,” John laughs, pulling him down for a cuddle. 

Sherlock complies, mentally rating cuddles right under kisses on his list of favourite things. He snuggles in to John’s arms that much closer, bridging an invisible, nameless gap that has kept them separated for seven years. He snuggles in closer for the ‘I love you, too’ he still can’t seem to spit out and for the ‘Sherlock is actually a girl’s name’ that he did. 

“I’m sorry,” is what he says eventually, voice muffled in John’s cream cable-knit jumper, the fabric muffling his insecurity. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” John assured him and strokes his hair back from his temples, soothing, warm,  _ home.  _

“I love you,” he blurts out and John goes still. He lifts his head out of John’s arms and looks him in the eye, having found his strength in home. “I love you,” he says again, a patch over all the times he didn’t. 

“Ah, love,” John says fondly, eyes watery and mouth shaky, “I love you. More than you’ll ever know probably. Certainly more than I have words for.”

For a long time, they just look at each other, the tension thick as butter between them. John is the first to move, a simple gesture, really: raking Sherlock’s hair back from his face and hooking it behind his ear, resting his palm underneath Sherlock’s jaw in a way that means  _ here _ . 

“Will you lie with me?” Sherlock whispers, equal parts certain and bashful. “Just lie with me until tomorrow?”

“Of course,” John says, lifting him by the waist so that they’re both standing in no time. He leads them to Sherlock’s room, never removing his arm from around Sherlock’s waist. 

They lie down on top of the covers. The darkness outside is not a threat to them, but a promise. Of the day to come and the nights to follow. 

“Did you ever think we would make it here?” Sherlock asks, turning on his side to face John. 

John mimics his position so that their faces are barely a breath apart. If he wanted to, Sherlock knows he could bridge that gap. That he’s allowed to now. “Yes,” John says. 

“You did?”

“Well. I hoped. I hoped so much it consumed me.”

“Me too,” Sherlock smiles. 

They look into each other’s eyes, warm breaths mingling as the hopeful night seems to wind down, the sounds of life slowly filtering its way up through the windows. 

Sherlock has never felt so free in his whole life before. 


	4. Chapter 4

John wakes up with a startle, his every sense on alert. The hand on his hip has gone perfectly still, just as the body pressed against his own.

“Sorry.”

The soft, concerned tone of Sherlock’s voice anchors him back to reality in an instant. The darkness around them is deep, too much so, and it takes him a second more to find Sherlock’s eyes.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Air filling his lungs again, John allows himself to relax. He knows where he is, knows exactly who the person in bed with him is, knows all too much the - still breathtaking - reason they’re currently lying there together.

“How long was I asleep?”

“A hour,” Sherlock replies, his voice barely a whisper, and John marvels at the feeling of his breath against his lips. “My nose was itchy.”

Unable to stop a bright chuckle from getting out, John slowly shifts closer, rubbing their noses together. “Better?”

Sherlock doesn't reply, simply nodding, eyes now closed and lips parted. Getting the message quite clearly, John leans in closer, catching Sherlock’s upper lip between his own. The longing moan echoing in the room wakes up something warm in John’s body, and so he finds himself kissing Sherlock just a little harder, curious. The hand on his hip is now curled around the fabric of his shirt, a quiet demand which John answers with yet another kiss.

“Were you watching me?” he asks, panting against Sherlock’s mouth.

Another nod. “Too much to memorise to bother with sleep.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t either then?”

Sherlock smiles, eyes still closed, and John finds himself worrying again. He’s seen this smile, often even in the past few weeks. He knows too well what it hides, what this small curl of Sherlock’s lips is for, what it prevents from getting out. Just as he’s very much aware of the countless occasions he used this smile for the exact same purpose.

“What’s on your mind, love?” he breathes directly against Sherlock’s lips. He brushes their noses together again, both hands now sliding up and down Sherlock’s back in slow movements. “You can tell me, you know that right? You can tell me anything.”

Sherlock’s head falls to his chest, his voice muffled by his shirt now. “Questions.”

“Questions?”

“Doubts. Fears.”

John holds him closer, messy curls now tickling his face. “I have a proposition for you. You can refuse if you want.”

Silence.

“I want you to think about three of those fears or doubts or questions, and tell them to me. I’ll do the same and tell you.”

Sherlock’s hand has gone still but he doesn’t move away.

“Then we take all the time we need to think of an answer for the other. It doesn’t have to be tonight. We just have to promise to be completely honest.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Sherlock replies, pulling away just enough to look at him almost defensively.

“I know,” John smiles, brushing back a few curls on his forehead. “But we’ve both been used to keeping lots and lots of questions to ourselves. It’s only fair to assume you’re just as scared as I am of getting them out and finally having an answer.”

Sherlock studies him for a long moment, and so John remains as open and trusting as he possibly can. He needs Sherlock to understand just how serious he is, how long he has waited for a moment like this and how close to being sick with worry he feels right now.

“Do I start?” Sherlock finally asks, still whispering.

“Your choice.”

“I think I want to start.”

John smiles once more, resisting the overwhelming urge to kiss him. “I’m listening.”

“One fear: to disappoint you, that my lack of experience concerning all sexual matters will be a problem to you. One doubt: I’m not one hundred percent certain you won’t leave again. Everytime I dare to imagine a future with you, I find myself doubting it is even possible that you’ll remain with me here. One question: will I ever be able to prove to you just how much I love you?”

Sherlock inhales deeply, having talked without ever taking the time to breathe, eyes open wide and fixed on him. It’s no surprise really. John had had his own questions ready for what seems a lifetime already, and so, with his heart on his lips, he dives in.

“I’m afraid you’ll get bored at some point. Of me, of our life, our routine. I doubt that I am what you deserve, that I’ll be able to make you completely happy, that I won’t hurt you again. I wonder whether you also picture the two of us, old and grey, sitting in our garden.”

Silence fills the room again, thick and heavy on both of their tangled bodies. John holds his breath. He can feel Sherlock’s heart beating against his palm, carefully placed on his chest. The closeness, the very same one that had seemed so impossible to reach before, is now the one feeling he’s clinging to. With Sherlock’s words playing on a loop inside his head, John finds himself wanting to both laugh and cry at the same time, or maybe simply melt into Sherlock and let him find the answers on his own.

“Three years ago,” Sherlock suddenly whispers, both hands sliding up from John’s hips to his face. “I dreamed about a dog, a beautiful dog running down to the sea and back up to me, over and over again. I have no idea where I was, but my hands were covered in wrinkles and I could feel a slight pain down my back. Somehow, I felt safe, completely safe and… loved. It didn’t make sense. Until you called for the dog. He ran off to meet you, and I watched you walk towards me. You had your cane, a deep green jumper and a basket in your hand. You were smiling at me, the dog barking to get your attention, but you didn’t look away from me. Not once.”

Sherlock stops, smiling now. John doesn’t seem to be able to look away.

“You kissed me,” Sherlock whispers. “I woke up almost tasting that kiss.”

John leans in, ever so slowly, suddenly unable to stop himself from giving Sherlock that very kiss he dreamed about. He doesn’t pull away when each kiss begins to taste of silent tears. And with their mouths still attached to each other, he whispers back,

“I don’t ever want you to worry about me leaving, love. I… There is only one thing I am absolutely certain about, and it’s that I want to spend the rest of my life where you are. I doesn’t matter where it turns out to be, here or on that beach or anywhere you want to go. I’m going to be right next to you, holding your hand and asking stupid questions so you’ll call me an idiot again. I love you, Sherlock. I love you to a point where I could stay in this bed with you for days on end.”

“I would like that,” Sherlock replies, pulling away just enough to look back at him. “No matter what our routine turns out to be, I am going to love every second of it because it’ll be ours, John. There isn’t any possible way for me to grow bored of you. You are - always have been - a puzzle to me, one that I want to spend the rest of my days trying to solve. I want to discover all there is left to know about you, especially now that we’re this. Do you realise how much more of you there is to uncover now, how many little things I will be able to study?”

“Enough for a lifetime you think?”

Sherlock chuckles, their noses bumping together. “Or two.”

“Then let’s agree to try something,” John offers.

“Trust each other enough to know how we feel?”

John laughs, stealing another kiss. “Brilliant.”

“I don’t know if I can do that, John.”

John threads his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, smiling, “What do you see when I tell you I love you?”

“I…”

Sherlock stops, falling silent for a long moment.

John continues to play with his hair softly, thumbs tracing the lines from his temple to his nose, down to his lips and up again. He lets it all show, all the feelings he kept at bay for so long. Sherry lock is allowed to see now, it’s safe. He’s safe here, wrapped around Sherlock in the softness of a bed that’s now theirs.

“Everything. I see everything.”

“Then you know,” John breathes. “You don’t need any more proof than just that. Just like I don’t need any more proof than the way your entire face suddenly lights up when I tell you, or the way your breath catches when I kiss you, or the way you looked just hours ago, sitting in your chair and telling me it’s not too late.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, sighing and burying his face against John’s neck.

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” John continues. “I know I still will be wondering whether I’m doing things right, or if this or that could hurt you, but I’m going to try and remember this moment right there every time I find myself doubting. I’ll remember how you kissed me and how you told me that you love me for the first time, and maybe it’ll be easier to trust that you know just how much I love you.”

Sherlock muffles something against his neck, making John laugh again.

“What was that?”

Sherlock emerges again, remaining close. “I said, I’ll do my best but no promises.”

“Just one then,” John smiles, kissing him softly. “To talk to each other when doubts are too heavy.”

Sherlock leans in to kiss him, sealing their lips in a lock that takes John by surprise, hungry for more. With both of Sherlock’s hands urging him to, John rolls him onto his back, settling on top of him. Without ever breaking the kiss, John slowly eases them closer together, hands traveling up and down Sherlock’s side until the urgency fades away. He doesn’t pull away just yet, prying Sherlock’s lips open with his tongue and kissing him for long seconds.

“What is it, love?”

Sherlock keeps his eyes closed, “You only answered two out of three. You said nothing about my… lack of experience…”

“I know,” John replies, kissing each eyelid softly. “I figured I’d save it for last.”

“Why?”

“Look at me,” John says, waiting until Sherlock does so to continue. “Because, love, it’s going to be alright.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock brings John down for another kiss, hungrier than the last. When they’re almost breathless, Sherlock pulls away again, anticipating John’s response.

He raises his eyebrows, silently willing him to speak.

John huffs out a light giggle, running his fingers all over Sherlock’s face, as though he can’t quite capture all of him with his eyes alone, the need to involve other senses taking over.

They stay cocooned in their little tangle of limbs and bodies until John whispers, “I’m not entirely sure what you mean about your lack of experience concerning all things sexual, but I can guarantee you right here, right now, that it makes not a lick of difference to me if you’ve slept with thousands of men - or women, mind you - or if you’ve never even held hands with one. That’s the least of my worries. Truly.”

Sherlock exhales audibly, the relief palpable. He knows he will disappoint John throughout the course of their relationship - knows he won’t be able to help himself at some point - but the last thing he wants is to embarrass himself by giving the impression that he could ever be an adequate enough partner to match John’s experience in the bedroom.

“I’ve never…” he starts, a flush spreading unevenly over his skin. He can feel his cheeks become hot and his mouth dry up and twist with awkwardness, but he soldiers through it. For John. “I’ve never slept with any men. No women either, _obviously_ ,” he adds with an exaggerated eye-roll. “The most I’ve ever done is… kissing and… well, mainly just that.”

John is silent, thoughtful, for a moment before he speaks. “You know,” he says, fingers now in Sherlock’s hair, rubbing little spirals into his scalp in the most mesmerising way possible. “I understand your apprehension and that you’d think a simple man like me would only care for simple pleasures such as sex, but did it ever occur to you that your lack of experience could be something of a turn on?”

Sherlock is surprised. It’s the last thing he ever expected John would say. “Don’t tell me you’re some sort of virgin fetishist,” he finally replies in mock horror.

“On the contrary, you git,” John responds, tapping a light smack on the side of his thigh. “I’ve never… That stuff, it doesn’t matter to me. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t quite fancy the idea that I’d be your first.”

If John didn’t look so _hungry_ right then, Sherlock might have been a little bit offended. As it is, he understands completely. The need inside him - the one that he has secretly held onto since that very first moment at Bart’s - is the one he sees mirrored in John’s face right then. The need to take and be taken in a unique way. The need to be the only one. The first and the last.

“I see,” he says, writhing lightly beneath John’s body.

“Ooh, you’re a bad man,” John says as he pants out at the friction.

“Whatever do you mean?” Sherlock plays innocent.

“Come here,” John growls, crushing their mouths together once more in a desperate, almost bruising kiss that Sherlock can’t help but become lost in.

John kisses his way down Sherlock’s neck, opening his shirt buttons to gain more access.

“Alright?” he asks softly, stopping before his mouth meets more bare skin.

“Yes,” Sherlock hisses, his hips stuttering off the bed of their own accord. He feels as though every one of their experiences together have only lent themselves to this very moment.

John slowly, painstakingly unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt and lets it hang open, kissing down his chest, over his scar, down to his belly-button and all the way back up again, claiming his mouth in a move that feels more conquering than not. Sherlock feels _owned_ and _safe_ and before he knows it, a bubble of emotion makes itself known, his breath hitching and eyes spilling over.

“Hey,” John whispers softly, concerned. He looks into Sherlock’s eyes, kisses the tears from the corners. “Everything okay in there?” he asks, planting a kiss on his temple.

“Fine, I just…” Sherlock closes his eyes, huffing out and willing himself to pull himself together.

John strokes his cheeks and plants several more kisses all over his face. “I understand,” he says kindly.

Sherlock opens his eyes and finds John looking down at him, smiling fondly. It’s all Sherlock can do not to burst into sobs. The utter emotion and relief he feels is answered in John’s expression and it’s like coming home after years and years or wandering through the desert.

“I love you,” he says again, because he can’t quite help himself.

“God, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to hearing that,” John replies, pecking him on his mouth. “I love you.”

“I’m sorry for being an emotional mess,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Git. We’re both emotional messes. This… it’s a lot. It has been a long time coming and it’s a lot to take in. Even with that brilliant, big head of yours.”

“A study done in 2013 found that unrequited love was four times more prevalent than equal love,” Sherlock blurts out, regretting it immediately. “I mean… What I mean to say is that, statistically, this was unlikely and you know how I value statistical outliers, but, yes, it _is_ , as you so eloquently put it, rather _a lot_.”

John smiles, leans down for another kiss, which Sherlock welcomes with literal open arms, encircling John in his embrace.

“You know, it’s not really fair that your shirt is still on,” Sherlock comments after a while.

“Oh, isn’t it?” John teases.

“No,” he pouts in response.

John chuckles and lifts himself up to discard of the offending garment, settling his weight back down on Sherlock, their bare torsos blissfully meeting each other’s.

“Better?”

“Yes,” Sherlock huffs out quickly, to which John lets out a low giggle.

Sherlock captures it with this mouth and soon, their kisses turn slow and lazy, one seeming to melt into the other, until they break apart, languorously pecking the other on whatever piece of skin becomes available without too much effort. John settles himself onto Sherlock, his whole left side still on top of him.

By now, it must be around four in the morning, and Sherlock knows they’re going to sleep soon, but the thought of having to separate from John gives him instant anxiety. He hooks his leg around John’s, urging him silently to stay in place.

“Can…” he starts softly, half hoping John won’t hear.

“Hmm?” John answers, dropping a small kiss on Sherlock’s clavicle.

“Can you stay? I mean… Would you like to? Stay like this until we sleep?”

John lifts his head to look into Sherlock’s eyes. “I’d love to,” he whispers.

Sherlock drifts off to sleep with a smile still ghosting over his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

John wakes up, not exactly certain where he is. The mattress is new, and so is the way light enters the room. The all too familiar pounding of his heart in such situations doesn’t alarm him. He breathes, in and out, slowly until it finally falls into place. Sherlock is the person lying behind him, both arms locked around John’s waist. It is his breathing he can feel on his nape and his legs tangled with his own. A smile blooms on his lips as John closes his eyes again, this time breathing in deeply as if to let it all sink in. This is not how they fell asleep - the situation reversed actually. He doesn’t mind. It is strangely calming to be the one waking up with someone else’s arms around you. Sherlock’s are long and firm and holding just tight enough for John to know he’s been clinging to him like this most of the night. That only makes his smile grow wider.

It should feel odd, or at least new to wake up this way, but all John can feel is a sense of _natural_ that takes most of his breath away in the end. Pondering whether to turn around in Sherlock’s arms or not, he allows himself to accept that this is probably how he’s going to wake up for the rest of his days. Some version of this anyway. He finds himself already waiting for the mornings where Sherlock would already be out of the bed so he could roll to his side and steal his pillow. But this morning, the first morning, all John wants is to kiss the man again. Just to make sure yesterday evening - and most of the night too - truly happened. In a warm, fuzzy flash, Sherlock’s whispered words come back to him, each printed on his mind for the long term. John wonders if he could kiss them all away this morning, turn them all into a memory they can hold on to but at the same time leave behind. 

“Good morning.”

The words are spoken directly against his neck, and John doesn’t suppress the shiver running up his spine.

“Morning,” he breathes, deliriously happy. 

Sherlock is the one to roll him around after all, hands manoeuvring him as he wants, John following with the same trust he always has. The smile starting on Sherlock’s lips all the way to his eyes makes John’s heart beat a little faster. Words don’t come, dying in his throat before forming, but John doesn’t care. It is all written on Sherlock’s face, everything that unfolded between them and all there is left to discover. John wonders if, by some mysterious chance, he could be falling in love all over again.

“You love me,” Sherlock finally says, not really a question, but still sounding amazed.

John’s head spins just a little. “Yes. I do.”

Sherlock chuckles, the sound bright and so surprising that everything in John begins to ache. He reaches out for him, bringing Sherlock’s face as close as it can possibly be and kisses him as if it were the first time again. Soft lips answer his kiss, already demanding more with careful touches of tongue. John can do little less than open up to him, again and again and again until there is nothing left in him that isn’t Sherlock’s. 

“Can we wake up like this again tomorrow?” Sherlock asks once they part, panting.

“Works for me,” John smiles.

“That means you’ll have to sleep in my bed again tonight,” Sherlock says, a playful look in his eyes.

“I guess that makes it our bed, then.”

Sherlock inhales sharply, eyes fluttering closed, and he all but melts against John, head going for his neck, staying buried there. John holds him, and then holds him some more. If Sherlock is going to need a moment to process it all, there is nothing else John can do but help him through it. So he strokes and kisses and holds for long minutes spent in respective silence. 

Sherlock’s voice is quiet, almost too much so, when he speaks again:

“What now?”

John considers the question, lips brushing Sherlock’s head. 

“Now we learn what it is like to be this new us,” John says, not sure what it will bring exactly.

“How?”

“We could start with breakfast,” John offers, slowly bringing Sherlock’s face up.

“Can I…” Sherlock starts, eyes searching. “How do I know if I can kiss you?”

“That’s pretty easy, love,” John says, chest full of warmth. “Whenever you feel like doing so.”

“What if we’re not alone?”

“Whenever you feel like doing so,” John repeats, going for a reassuring kiss right then. “In the privacy of our bed or in the middle of the street, I’m always waiting for you to kiss me.”

Sherlock sighs into another kiss, both hands coming up to cup John’s face. 

“I’m not hungry,” he says, eyes shut tight.

“That’s alright,” John replies, brushing their noses together. “You can do what you want, I can do what I want. Us being… well, us, doesn’t mean everything has to change. We’re going to work, solve cases, eat takeaway and get on each other’s nerves. That isn’t going to change, love. The only thing that will is that now, we _know_.”

Sherlock smiles, breathing out loudly, “Alright. Yes.”

“Ready?” John asks.

“Ready.”

It almost too easy in the end. Sherlock does not eat but sits with John at the table, listening to him go over the morning paper and telling him which articles to save. John smiles into his coffee when Sherlock’s feet finds his under the table, and he accepts with an even broader smile the kiss Sherlock plants on his lips when he declares he needs a shower. Morning shapes into afternoon without either of them noticing. Sherlock smells nice after his shower and so John pushes him down onto the sofa and kisses him soundly for long minutes. He laughs, when a little more than a hour later, Sherlock gives him the same treatment, going on and on in quiet whispers just how long he’s wondered how his hair would feel still damp. Lunchtime comes and goes, John too busy moving clothes and belongings to his new room to notice. Sherlock helps in his own way, offering to share his sock index system, and if their shared laughter fills the room more than once, John makes sure to kiss the sound directly from Sherlock’s lips each time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that marks the end of this story! Thank you for all the comments ands kudos!!
> 
> You my have noticed that the rating changed. Maybe there'll be a bonus chapter about their first time, but we're not sure yet!


End file.
